


Just Give Me A Reason

by missbeizy



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, M/M, Poly!verse, Polyamory, RPF, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safeword Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poly verse where Chris, Will, Darren, and Mia are all in a relationship.</p>
<p>This one is Chris/Darren, and it’s also D/S with top!Chris and sub!Darren.  It’s a bit of roughness sandwiched between sweetness, gets a little emotionally intense and has a lot of poly relationship talk.</p>
<p>Warnings for: needing to safeword in a D/S scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Give Me A Reason

Chris comes home blessedly early from a table read, for once unstressed and smiling because it had gone really well, expecting to find an empty house because Will has a networking lunch. He finds Brian in the kitchen sitting by his kibble bowl, a look on his face that clearly says, "You have failed me, human," as Chris feeds him and tries to pet him but gets the cold shoulder instead.

"The empty space in the middle of that heaping mound is no bigger than a quarter, you overweight little shit," he says, flopping down at the kitchen table with a Diet Coke in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

They have dinner reservations but that's hours away, and he wonders if he could fit in another chapter and a shower before getting changed. He's had this particular image in his head all day and it will not leave him alone; he'd made some quick notes on his iPhone during a bathroom break at the read, but if he doesn't look at it now he knows he'll lose the finer points and that always drives him crazy. He'll abandon an idea entirely if he can't write the best version of it that he knows he can.

The thing is, he's not alone. There's someone in the living room and, given their relationship, it's either Darren or Mia--Mia is particular about scheduling their time because she barely has spaces in her day for food and bodily functions, much less randomly showing up at Chris and Will's. Which narrows it down to Will or Darren, Will because he's usually home or enjoys popping in to surprise Chris in the middle of the day, or Darren because while shooting Glee his schedule is actually less hectic than when he's on hiatus and committing to something literally every three seconds, but today Will had been very excited about his meeting, so--

He finds Darren curled up on the sofa opposite the television.

Some nature show is playing and Darren is twined around a throw pillow like it's dear to him, a long-sleeved t-shirt pulled down over his knuckles, jeans riding low on his hips, and his bare feet curled around the edge of a cushion. His hair is a mess, curls tangled up from slicks of hair obviously still suffering under the oppression of hair gel, his glasses tilted and smudged on his nose, and his eyes red-rimmed.

He looks like shit.

Chris tries to recall if he'd sounded weird the last time that they spoke, but all that had been was a conversation about their next date night, which is set to include a local band and the intention to get higher than kites.

"Darren?" he calls, circling the couch.

Darren looks up at him, spooked, though he must've heard the garage when Chris came home.

"Hey," Darren answers, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I was gonna get up but there's this--do you know how fucking cool elephants are, fuck, this shit is crazy." He motions to the television. "I kind of want one."

Chris laughs, falling down onto the sofa beside him. "What's up?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Did we have plans? Because if we did I totally flaked out on you, sorry."

Darren opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Chris is slightly horrified to realize that his eyes are glazing over behind the lenses of his glasses. It only takes a moment's worth of observation to see that his knuckles have gone white around the throw pillow that he's holding; in fact, his whole body is shaking.

Something instinctive inside of Chris sits up and catalogs these things, leads him to the very natural conclusion that Darren is seriously upset.

"Tell me what's wrong," he says, voice steady and firm.

Darren doesn't cry but he does get emotional, hands in the air and his whole body venting frustration as he launches into a tale about a disagreement on set that had led to a personal confrontation in between takes with someone that Darren has always had problems with. He'd been unable to resolve the conflict and it had sparked a whole unrelated series of events having to do with a relative, a call he'd gotten in the middle of this argument, and Chris can tell without having to ask that this breakdown is the result of months of going too fast and too hard. He's seen it before--Darren will work and play like a machine, and the first wall of conflict that he hits the moment he slows down shreds him to pieces.

He's not the shutting down type but he does fracture, and if music or weed or friends don't help, he continues to fracture, jagged lines spreading over a normally unflaggingly strong exterior, until all it takes is a puff of wind to shatter him into a thousand pieces.

Early on when they'd first started working together, after that initial silly fun, after fame turned them both nasty and selfish, they'd done more fucking and fighting than communicating and getting along. During those few awkward months when frustration had boiled over into angry sex that left them both unsure of themselves and their relationship, Chris had been rough with Darren because he'd been furious with him.

The attitude and the rah-rah team player chanting and the attention grabbing and the name dropping had all reached a point where Chris just couldn't stand to be around him, and yet--there had been that thing. That pull, that physical ease, and he'd had Darren on his knees and back so many times, just to fuck him, just to have him, and sometimes he'd been tied up and sometimes he'd been gagged and sometimes he'd been bent over furniture, and sometimes he begged for it, and sometimes they were high and drunk, and Chris couldn't trust the twinks throwing themselves at him left right and center, and Darren needed it but didn't know how to exist within the sphere of needing it without declaring it, and it had been so, so fucked up.

And then it had stopped. They'd had enough. Darren said that he wanted to try again to make the long distance thing with Mia work, not because of Chris but because of him, because he needed a change. Ashley had introduced Chris to Will and after a choppy start-stop few months of dating and being smacked full in the face with a variety of trust issues that he hadn't even realized he had, he had fallen, and fallen hard, almost at the same time as Will, and it had been quite literally everything that Chris had always wanted.

Until Will had casually exclaimed, "Oh, hey, it's Mia! Let's go talk to her," at a party one night, and Chris' eyes had widened and he'd felt his worlds collide, and--well. The rest is history.

Except he and Darren have never really talked about it. They let Mia and Will build the foundation of this crazy thing, enjoyed the easy way that they could just slot themselves into it after the fact, traveling the roads that their partners had laid down and finding each other again with very little personal effort. And it hadn't been just that. They were a little older. A little wiser. Less impressed by the work they found themselves involved in, and a lot more interested in pursuing their creative passions. They mellowed and matured and their pride deflated, just enough to make them realize that they had been so stupid.

Will had been such a huge part of it, because Will had made it so simple. They talked about Darren and Mia a lot in the early days, of course, negotiating and debating and laughing because it had been crazy and yet it had just worked.

But as for Darren Will had just shrugged and smiled and got that little glint in his eye that he got when he was truly and completely smitten and said, "He's amazing. Amazingly hot, talented, and also crazy, but who isn't?"

"He doesn't drive you nuts, ever?" Chris had asked.

"Baby, have you met our friends?" And by our he means his, and by friends he means the insanely incestuous gaggle of gay men that he can't seem to stop loving despite how ridiculous they all are together. "If I can put up with their shit and still adore them, I can admit to adoring Darren unconditionally."

And Chris had sort of tilted his head and realized that--well, fuck. His boyfriend had a point. And that maybe he had been sort of a tool, too.

From that day on it had gotten progressively easier--a smile there, a kiss here, making out on the patio at a party, sharing good weed and better alcohol, laughing at a concert, and then he'd asked Darren out on a date and they hadn't driven each other nuts, and the weeks bled together and it just--started to work.

One night they'd been together, all four of them, Mia curled up in Chris' lap and Will in Darren's and Chris and Darren in the middle holding hands and kissing and Chris had been buzzed and happy and had whispered, "Love you," in Darren's ear, and Darren had looked at him like the goddamned sun rising, and--yeah. Perfect.

There's still a limit, sometimes, because they are both so fucking intense and stubborn but, for the most part, Chris has no regrets, and fewer doubts.

So today, sitting here on his couch with Darren literally falling apart in front of him, he struggles with the combination of memories of incredibly rough, power play sex born mostly of frustration and misplaced longing, and the current status quo which is so much more emotional, and so much gentler.

He feels as if finding and loving Will and being loved by him has made him able to be this better person, this smarter person, who can see the connections between all four of them and embrace them instead of run from them, and he wants to make the right choices today because it matters. Darren matters to him, in ways that he had never anticipated he might.

"Come here," he says, when Darren stops talking. He's wide-eyed and vulnerable in a way that he only shows when he wears Blaine's face, but it's ten times worse because he looks nothing like Blaine; the pain written across his features is raw and imperfect and all Darren.

Darren lies down into his lap, pressing his face into Chris' shirt and wrapping his arms around Chris' waist. Chris puts his arms around Darren's shoulders and his fingers into Darren's hair and strokes down to the scalp, repetitive circles that make him shiver and press closer.

"It's okay," Chris says, though he knows it's not and he hates to just placate, "It's okay."

"I was going to wait for Will to get home," Darren says, the words muffled against Chris' stomach. "He--I mean, it's not that I didn't want you, I just--"

Chris thinks about how easy it is between Will and Darren and feels a twinge of something that's not quite jealousy because he isn't sure exactly who in this situation he'd be jealous of, or if he would even call it that. This thing works for all of them because none of them are particularly prone to jealousy.

But that's not the point.

He thinks about all the stuff he has in a small chest in his and Will's bedroom: ropes and gags and rings and paddles.

He thinks about Will needing it but not often, usually around the anniversary of his dad's death or when a call from one of his sisters brings up an unpleasant childhood memory, thinks about how he goes small and quiet and bites his lip until it bleeds and waits for Chris to notice before nodding and going to the chest and taking out what he wants. They don't talk about it much. It's easier when it just happens organically as the result of good sex, Chris' body pinning him to the bed, a few dirty phrases and Will can usually get what he needs.

Darren is nothing like that. He's open and bold and has no trouble articulating specifics, and Chris remembers so many times early on when they'd just ripped into each other. He remembers getting Darren hard and making him stay hard for hours, soaking his boxers until he might as well have come in them, remembers ripping them off of his body and crumpling them in his fist and pushing them into Darren's mouth to gag him before shoving Darren's knees around his ears and fucking him so hard that he couldn't sit down the next day without wincing. He remembers constantly jerking Darren off in the trailers, never giving him a second to breathe because he knew that Darren liked it, liked being rushed and overwhelmed and taken with little warning.

But that was then.

He steels his voice, softens his expression, and asks, "What would you like, honey?"

Darren goes stiff, then stares up at him, surprised. "Really?"

Chris nods, licking his bottom lip.

Darren's eyes go gold. It's the only way to describe it. They literally go from honey to brown to clear in seconds, and his cheeks are rushed with pink, and the miserable red-rimmed swell around his eyes darkens. He looks at Chris, then puts his hands on Chris' chest, and there's wonder in his touch, and an adoration that can't be verbalized.

"Let me touch you," he says, throat working. "Just let me fucking touch you everywhere, let me--get at you, just, no clothes, no toys, just--your body. Okay?"

Fuck.

Chris shivers, wetting his mouth again and trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. He knows why Darren wants that--knows how easy it is to detach and heal when you can put your focus completely on another person. It'll work. It'll be--perfect. It'll be freakishly intimate, and a year ago Chris would have shut down at the request, but he's not that person anymore. At least, not with the three of them.

He gently untangles their bodies.

"Let me get some blankets, okay? I'll be just a minute."

He takes a few plush comforters from where they keep the winter bedding and comes back, pushing the coffee table back against the couch and building a little nest of pillows and blankets in front of the television. The soda and water he'd carried with him into the living room are there already, and he adds a bottle of lubricant and a box of baby wipes to the table.

Darren is sitting at the edge of the couch, hunched and still and tense.

"Would you like to undress me?" Chris asks.

"Fuck, yes," Darren breathes, twitching forward.

Chris smiles, rocking side to side on his feet and going pink up the back of his ears. He beckons. "Come on."

The hardest thing about being a pushy, sometimes irritable, dominant, is that he wants to control everything, and knows that sometimes what a sub needs is for him to do absolutely nothing.

He takes a deep breath and watches Darren's flushed, intent face as he unbuttons Chris' shirt, each low plip sending a rush of blood down Chris' body to his cock. He can't help it; the sensation is so translatable, and he's always been an absolute sucker for a man's hands moving along his clothes.

Darren smiles as he pushes the shirt off and finds nothing underneath. They've created enough undershirt jokes to last a lifetime, but that doesn't stop Darren from breathing out, "Praise William," because it had been Will's idea to use Chris' undershirt collection as the foundation of the first bonfire they'd enjoyed in the firepit of the new house.

They lock eyes when Darren undoes his belt, the clink and rustle of the leather going through the metal clasp so loud in the quiet room. Chris steps out of his pants and socks, then shivers through it as Darren touches his waist, draws their bodies together. He breathes warm over Chris' collarbone--god, Darren is just so small--and scrapes his fingernails to the waistband of Chris' briefs.

Their skin is already blazing warm together, and the arousal dripping through Chris' veins like molasses through a straw is almost too much. He wants to grab Darren and haul him close, kiss him noisy and push him down onto the floor and make him feel things, but--that's not what he wants or needs right now.

So he lets Darren lower him to the blankets on the floor. He lets Darren kneel over him. He doesn't say anything when Darren hisses out, "Fucking Christ, Christopher, you are beautiful."

It's easier than he thought it would be, letting Darren just--take. He's intense, but he always is. He's thorough, but he's always that, too. He's hungry--so fucking hungry, his swollen lips and eager tongue blazing a path down Chris' neck and chest.

He spends ten minutes on the left nipple, suckling and nibbling and licking and making noises that a starving man let at food might make. He switches to the right, spends twice the time there, until Chris is so overly sensitive that it hurts. It's a good hurt, which he would embrace right now if he could breathe, but he sort of can't.

He keeps having to force his hands down to the blankets, to just let Darren do whatever it is that makes him feel calmer, better, more in control. He stares at his spit-soaked, hard as glass nipples, ringed with teeth marks and saliva and bruises, the pebbled tips so sensitive in the temperature controlled air.

Darren does the same to his shoulders, making him arch and sweat and gasp as he nibbles the muscles that run between his neck and shoulders and then on to his upper arms. He does the same to the long curves and smooth planes of his neck, latches onto the curves of his ears, sucks at the hinge of his jaw. He does the same to the inside of his elbows and the soft flesh of his inner forearms. He does the same to his wrists and sensitive palms and fingers and fingertips, licking and suckling and biting with desperate groans.

Chris is a literal puddle by the time that Darren covers his ribs and belly with hickeys, placing them one by one between constellations of freckles like an artist with a brush. Chris is so hard that it seems beyond sense, his dick curled back toward his belly button like a petulant child demanding attention, the crown swollen tight and red and the slit just a little damp.

Darren kisses the flushed head, cheeks ruddy and pupils blown wide when he breathes shakily, "So fucking big, shit," and then proceeds to bypass the prize entirely and move down Chris' thighs.

An hour ticks by in this fashion (Chris has--quite a lot of leg), Darren suckling kisses up and down and around, leaving spit-wet hair in his wake. The backs of Chris' knees are ridiculously sensitive, which Darren soon learns to impressive result, smiling and licking into the sweaty crevasses until Chris is panting and fucking the drag of his own cock along his belly, fingers twisting around the blanket under him.

Darren kisses his calves and his ankles and even his feet, which makes him twitch and twist because he's very ticklish there, and also because he's not crazy about his feet being involved with other people's mouths and Darren knows that, thankfully. This doesn't stop him from sucking on Chris' ankle bones for a good five minutes.

When there literally isn't an inch of Chris that hasn't been kissed or tasted or touched outside of his cock and hole, Darren crawls back up Chris' body and kisses his trembling mouth, breathing so wrecked that Chris can feel each uneven pull of his lungs, desperate for relief, or even just normalcy.

He whimpers and his back arches as Darren's tongue fills his mouth. "Fuck, baby."

Darren's cheeks are tear-streaked, and Chris can't even say when that happened, except that it doesn't seem to matter now, not at all, because Darren is kissing him, and it's wet and loving and desperate and he just wants more.

"Can I suck you?" he asks, shaking.

"If you do as good of a job as you usually do, that'll be the end of it," Chris admits, breathless.

Darren lowers his mouth once again to cover Chris', his voice pitched low and his whisper threadbare, "Just for a minute, just--and I want--" He shudders as his clothed body grinds along Chris' naked skin. "I want to lick your--hole, fuck."

Christ.

Chris whines, unable to stop himself from pushing his fingers into Darren's sweaty curls. "Fuck, yes, okay."

His entire body is a mass of humming hickeys and stinging kisses and his dick is literally screaming at him, but he clamps down on the feeling, holding his breath as Darren settles between his knees and pushes his thighs apart. He stops only to take his glasses off and put them on the coffee table.

Darren can be utterly filthy when he gets access to these areas, and it's no different tonight; as soon as he gets in range of Chris' cock and balls his mouth goes wet with spit and he takes Chris' cock to the back of his throat as if it's a requirement for continuing to exist and not just an optional act.

Chris sobs and fucks Darren's mouth, unable to keep his hands off of Darren's head. He tries to not guide too much, to just let Darren's mouth bob around him, but it takes every ounce of his restraint. He is not experienced enough to be passive, but for Darren he'll try to reign it in.

"Stop," he barks, once it's gone on too long. Darren just won't stop, won't stop sucking the pre-come from the head of his dick, won't stop licking the shaft, won't stop hollowing his cheeks around it.

Darren stops at the command, however, panting and sobbing softly against the base of Chris' cock, his tongue licking over the firm swell of his balls just below. He seems--a little wobbly again, so Chris decides to continue giving commands until he goes back to how relaxed he was when he was working Chris' body over.

"Suck," he says, guiding his left testicle into Darren's mouth, groaning when he closes his lips and sucks, swirling his tongue over the delicate flesh. "Good, that's good."

Darren seems to calm down a little, and getting that gorgeous mouth off of his cock lets him back away from the orgasm waiting at the base of spine. He switches the left for the right once it gets too sensitive, his naked body bent at the dip of his back and the arch of his neck, head thrown back as Darren lifts his sac and kisses the skin just below it.

And fuck, if there is one thing that turns Chris to jelly in moments flat every time, it's a tongue near his asshole.

He trembles, knees twitching farther apart as Darren goes at his perenium like ice cream, suckling and nibbling and licking until the spit from his efforts has dripped down and soaked Chris' hole, making the hair and the skin there stick together, and it feels so good that Chris chokes on the urge to push Darren's mouth lower.

"Lick it," he eventually gasps when Darren takes too long to get there, desperation making his voice shake and crack. "Fuck, Darren, fuck."

He can feel the tight clench of his pucker open and close with the proximity of Darren's mouth and tongue, and the ache settles heavily in his balls like fingers wrapping around them at the base. When Darren finally starts lapping at his pucker he growls, thighs bent in the air, and grabs Darren by the hair at the base of his neck, grinding his ass against Darren's mouth.

He's sort of losing it.

"Put your tongue in me," he rasps.

He does. And what that does to Chris, how every time he says to do something Darren does it, is something that he can barely hold on to. It's like a heartbeat so violent that it bursts out of the front of a chest because it simply has no grasp of necessary limitation. It's the hottest thing that Chris has ever experienced.

Darren's lips spill a never-ending stream of high-pitched squeaks and gasps and whimpers, his sweaty fingers slipping in all the spit as he spreads Chris' cheeks, buries his nose against Chris' perineum, and fucks Chris' flexing asshole with every bit of strength and ferocity that his jaw can produce.

It feels goddamned amazing.

Chris holds his head there, uses the leverage of his long legs to fuck himself on Darren's tongue until he can't stand it anymore and he has to stop to jerk his cock, which is literally twitching on his belly. He wants to come with Darren's face buried between his cheeks, Darren's fat tongue turning tight little circles inside of his ass, but--

He wants to fuck Darren senseless more. And as the tension builds and Darren squirms and starts to take breaks in between furious bouts of licking and shoving his tongue in and out of Chris' body, Chris knows that Darren wants that, too; he can't stop peeking at the long, thick dick in Chris' hand, and Chris knows that he's thinking about how it would feel to just take it right here and now with only lubricant for prep and Chris' surging passion behind every thrust.

Because Chris is ready to tear him in half, and they both know it. It's the only way he knows how.

Chris drags the head of his cock over Darren's ruby-red, friction puffed lips, smearing them with pre-come as they stare into each other's eyes.

"Get on your knees," Chris says roughly.

Darren's whole face shudders with pleasure. "Yes. Yes, shit, yes."

Sitting up is a whole world of fucking god what did he do to me. Every muscle in Chris' body feels touched and prodded in the best way possible. He sits up on his knees, staring with maniac focus at Darren, t-shirt rucked up, tight jeans tugged low around his hips, exposing a slice of his brown back, going to his hands and knees on the blankets.

It's so hot that Chris' brain actually goes blank for the span of a single heartbeat. When he can see again he takes a breath to try and calm the pounding of his heart, and fumbles for the tube of lubricant on the coffee table.

Darren seems calm again, so he doesn't hesitate to peel the sweat-soaked t-shirt off of his torso, then unbutton his jeans just to give him some relief and gauge his level of sensitivity. He bends over Darren's back, kissing the damp spring of curls at the nape of his neck.

"Still hard for me? Didn't rub off on your jeans?" Chris asks, feeling underneath Darren's belly for the jut of his dick.

"Fuck," Darren says, hips jerking as Chris finds him hard as stone and dripping at the tip. "I'm--so close."

Chris grins, biting the back of Darren's neck. "Good. Because I want you to come for me. I want you to come fucking yourself on my cock, no hands, just my cock in your ass."

"Shit, yeah. Please. Please, Chris."

He can feel Darren's body shaking, and thinks briefly about stopping to take off the jeans and boxers. But they look so good crumpled around Darren's thighs, just below his thick, hairy ass cheeks, like Chris just pushed him to the floor a minute ago and will have him a minute later, like he's so desperate for it that he doesn't even care if his clothes are fully off.

A thought occurs and Chris blurts it before he thinks about it, "If I could do it without hurting you I'd fuck you with just sweat and spit. Push into you and make you fucking scream."

"Oh my god," Darren whimpers, and Chris realizes that he's crying again, control slipping, the emotions of the day bleeding out of him as Chris takes him apart moment by moment.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Just my big fucking cock ramming into you, hurting you, splitting you open." Darren continues sobbing, dry heaves as he breaks, his arms buckling, sending him shoulders and head first against the blanket with his ass in the air. Chris smooths his hands over Darren's cheeks and spreads them, dragging the pads of his thumbs over Darren's dry hole. "That's it; let go for me, Dare, just like that. You don't have to do anything, I'm going to fuck you. Going to fuck you so hard, going to take care of everything."

He trembles on his knees, feeling the vibration of emotion and arousal surge through Darren's bent body like the half-finished sizzle of a dying electrical circuit, fighting but giving over at the same time to the inevitable.

"You can come whenever you want," he adds, feeling the old habits come back to him, even as his shaking fingers try to manage the lubricant tube.

He keeps getting distracted staring down at his body, at the shape of Darren's mouth literally everywhere, the little red dashes that his teeth have left behind, and the hair on his body stands up again. God, he's so fucking hard, and Darren's dusky brown hole is opening and closing around nothing, waiting to be filled.

He lets the lubricant warm in his hand for a second, then smears two applications of it, one to Darren's crack and the other along his own cock.

"Not too much," Darren whimpers, daring to glance over his shoulder at Chris. "I--I want what you said. As close as we can get."

Fuck.

Chris wipes the residue off of his hand, sets the tube aside and with careful deliberation, squeezes Darren's cheeks together and then apart. He would definitely take his time with so little lubricant if this were their usual fucking, sink in slowly and let Darren feel it nice and gradually.

"Relax for me, honey," he says, tipping Darren's hips and inching forward between his knees. "If you don't, this is going to hurt."

Darren sobs. "Oh god."

Chris holds him open, rubs the head of his cock into the smooth, aching depression of Darren's rim, lets the head pop past that first impossibly tight ring of muscle and then, instead of stopping and sinking in carefully he slams home in one thrust, tightening a fist in the hair at the back of Darren's head and holding him still.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh fuck. Oh god, Chris. Chris. Fuck."

Chris pulls back, then thrusts in to the root again; Darren's body takes it, ramrod straight and stiff, his anus fluttering hungrily around the intrusion.

"I'm going to come," Darren gasps, thighs clenching, fingers curling into fists around the blanket, head ducking low between his beautiful, corded shoulders as it rips through him, as his whole body twitches with the pulse of his orgasm, cock going stiff with each lush pearly shoot of come from that swollen tip.

It's fucking beautiful.

Chris breathes out with difficulty, clutching Darren's hair in one hand and his hip in the other. His ass is still throbbing and pulsing around Chris' cock.

After a brief reprieve, Chris begins moving again, pulling out to the head and pushing in to the base, over and over and over, until they have a rhythm and Darren is putty beneath him, shaking and crying softly and swaying back onto his cock.

"Do you want me to finish, or give you more?" Chris knows all too well that it can change once someone comes, and he feels compelled to check.

Darren sits low on his knees, legs bending, and Chris nudges up beneath them, more or less getting Darren's beautiful fat ass in his lap as they get comfortable.

"Keep fucking me," he answers, sitting back on Chris' thighs, and Chris can't help but run his hands around Darren's waist, up his chest, tweaking his barely there little nipples and grazing the cut of his collarbone.

Chris isn't sure whether Darren is aware of just how long he could make this last, but he guesses that that's part of the fun. He starts slowly, dragging Darren's flushed, slippery ass down onto his cock, and that's easy because he's so eager and stretched.

He clutches Darren's body to his, using the leverage to fuck up into him at a rapid, even clip. He's so tight. So fucking hot inside and soft as silk, his muscles rippling around Chris' cock like a fist. Chris had been so close before they started fucking, but now that he's past that point he's found a second wind, and he intends to use it.

He fucks Darren for what feels like hours, stopping every time that he gets close to coming, but never letting up aside from those brief moments. He fucks Darren hard and fast, holding him still and forcing his ass to take it, over and over and over, perfectly aware that his cock is above average size in both length and girth, and that Darren's abused, swollen hole is started to twinge.

He can tell exactly when pleasure begins to bleed into pain. He can tell exactly when Darren decides to let it go there, his whole body melting like chocolate on a dashboard around Chris' cock, in Chris' arms. The pain is the key to the lock at the center of his chest, and twisting it opens up the door. He starts to cry again, tears wet down his chin, dropping softly onto his chest, onto Chris' arms braced around his torso.

Chris surges inside of him. With every sob and sniffle and tear, Chris grows impossibly harder.

Darren is so good for him.

He leans close, Darren's thighs spread open over his, his cock buried so deeply that he's barely thrusting, just grinding the inside of Darren's ass roughly around his throbbing dick.

"Good boy," he whispers, kissing Darren's shoulder. "That's it. Just take it. Take it."

Chris stares at Darren's cock bouncing against his belly as he gets soundly fucked. It looks irritated and desperate, purple at the head, as hard as it was just an hour ago. He knows that Darren is trying to angle his prostate against Chris' cock, to get that same friction going as it had gone before.

"No," Chris rasps, grasping Darren at his underarms. "Not yet. Don't you dare fucking come yet."

"Chris," Darren sobs.

"Not yet," he pants, feeling Darren's fat, glistening, slippery cheeks jiggle and spread across his thighs as he fucks between them. "Not yet, not yet, not yet."

It goes on, and on, and on, and finally, Darren starts crying out, and then, when Chris isn't sure how much longer he can take the spasmic clench of Darren's ass around him, Darren goes dangerously still and falls forward on his hands.

"Red," he cries. "Red red red."

And Chris stops dead, hands going still on Darren's quivering hips; he's flushed everywhere, sweaty everywhere, and he's shaking so hard that his curls are trembling.

Shit.

"I can't," Darren whimpers.

"Okay," Chris answers, voice a soothing purr as he strokes up and down Darren's contorted back. "Okay. Shh. Breathe. Breathe for me, honey." He gently lowers them onto their sides, and even more gently eases himself out of Darren's body, careful not to catch or snag or do anything that might hurt him further. He helps Darren out of his jeans and boxers and socks, using the time and the motions to calm him down.

Darren twists in his arms, a whimper already cracking his throat as he kisses Chris. Their bodies are an absolute wreck, their throats trashed, and Chris feels fucked out despite the fact that he hasn't come yet.

Darren kisses his cheekbones and his jaw, his nose and his ears, and when he reaches up to cup Darren's face to calm him down a little, he kisses Chris' fingers and wrists and palms, too, frantic, desperate little jerky kisses that leave Chris realing.

"Stop," Chris gasps, grasping Darren's arms. "Stop, come--come here, just touch me? Please, touch me." He presses Darren's right hand to his throbbing cock, rolls his hips to bring them closer together. "Wanna feel your hands, just, fucking touch me, Darren."

"Okay," Darren pants, "okay. Can I make you come? Can I--fuck--"

"Yes, shit, shit, just, use your hand."

He does, and they never break eye contact through it, Darren's desperate fist pumping him, jacking him rough and sloppy, their sweaty bodies rubbing together, Darren's cock against his hip, still hard, still pulsing.

It's too much, almost. Too intimate. Too full of the love that they've birthed only recently, though its foundations are much older, and Chris grabs Darren's back and holds him close as the tension builds in his balls, his breath chasing relief alongside of his body.

"Touch me," he gasps, even though Darren already is, but it rushes out of his throat like vomit, over and over, desperate and wanting and full of emotion, "touch me, touch me, touch me, oh, god, Darren, Darren--" He comes over Darren's fist, splattering their bellies in the process, but it feels like so much more, like his guts are leaving him as his come leaves him, messy and wet and everywhere.

He floats on a haze of pleasure, only coming back down because Darren is fucking his hip bone and sobbing against his throat.

"Please," Darren gasps, "please, please, please, let me."

"Yes, come," Chris whines, clutching Darren's curls and breathing into them and kissing over his face and neck and jaw frantically. "Just keep touching me. Just don't stop. Darren. Darren, fuck, you--fuck--"

He can feel it when Darren shoots over his torso and it's not much but it's still so hot, Darren's thigh folded over his hip and his whole body a mess of quaking muscle and flesh.

When they kiss after that it just feels--complete, and Chris can tell that there is nothing left in Darren to exorcise. He's limp, and his eyes are dry, and he's pressing little kisses all over Chris' shoulder, turning his face into Chris' throat and wrapping his arms and legs around Chris' body.

Chris feels almost as wrung out and doesn't even pretend otherwise, squeezing his fingers into Darren's shoulder blades until he can feel the bone grind against his finger bones, until Darren lets out a high pitched little noise of relief into Chris' upper arm. Chris rolls onto his back and takes Darren halfway on top of his body and kisses him, tangling their legs and lining their hips up comfortably.

He loses track of time as he loses himself in Darren's mouth, in Darren's eager, sloppy kisses, feeling his heart throb in his chest. The beats almost hurt, like fresh bruises, and he cards his fingers through Darren's hair and runs his bare toes down the back of Darren's calves.

Everything is just so loose now, despite the brief fright of Darren safe-wording, despite Chris feeling an ache of something like guilt because he had gone a little too far.

Almost as if sensing these thoughts, Darren ducks low to kiss a circuit from hickey to hickey, his eyes glittering as his lips soothe the marks.

"Love you," he whispers, when he travels back to Chris' mouth, not letting go of the clasp of their bodies.

"I love you, too," Chris answers, and means it, really fucking means it. "Did you--have you waited to--you could have come to me with this so much sooner."

"I don't know, man," Darren says, not letting go, not stopping the movement of his hands over Chris' body. "It's weird. We never talk about those first couple years, I wasn't sure if it was cool, or, fuck, I dunno."

"Whatever happened happened, okay? I'm just--I want now to be better than okay, I want it to be amazing, and it is, I just--need to know that we're on the same page."

Darren pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, and oh, there is a world of tenderness and affection and acceptance in those eyes, maybe more than Chris can stand but also about as much as he probably needs.

"We have some flawless shit going on here," he says, and there is that beautiful optimistic smirk, that look that says I'm going to find the silver lining if it kills me and everyone in this room. "Don't you think?"

And Chris can't think of a single reason to disagree.


End file.
